


Still I Carry This Feeling

by somelovelylove



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Joe is a moody gay icon, Liebgott really is just the most powery power bottom, M/M, Riding, also happy ending except also a lil sad?, also some OCs but theyre not super important, and have we figured out his name? Web? Kenyon? David? what the fuck, no one knows how to say i love you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 07:58:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17638877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somelovelylove/pseuds/somelovelylove
Summary: It wasn’t that he liked Webster—in fact, he hated him. He hated that he had gone right back to school like he said he would, he hated that he had sent him damn letters (what? Since when was Joe supposed to give a shit about him?), and most of all he hated that he had to drag his ass all the way across the fucking country to see him.





	Still I Carry This Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Stevie Nicks' "Leather and Lace."

Spring had just broken open onto Cambridge when Joe arrived. It hadn’t really been planned, coming here, but he’d had a buddy who was driving out from Frisco to see some girl in New York and he’d wanted some company. He was losing money—not working and all—but it had been a nice reprieve from the monotony of cab driving on weekdays and sad looks from his Ma on weekends. Once he’d gotten to New York he’d hitched a ride up to Boston, and from there to Cambridge. He supposed he should feel bad for not going to see some of the guys in Philly, but there was a strange sensation dragging him north.

It wasn’t that he liked Webster—in fact, he _hated_ him. He hated that he had gone right back to school like he said he would, he hated that he had sent him damn letters (what? Since when was Joe supposed to give a shit about him?), and most of all he hated that he had to drag his ass all the way across the fucking country to see him. Everything about Web pissed him off—his highbrow fucking culture, his rich parents, his dumb face, the way he looked in his uniform, the gut wrenching feeling when that damn grenade hit the water during the patrol mission—

Joe shook his head to move the thoughts away. Thinking about the war was a slippery slope to night terrors and abstract existential dread that he did _not_ have time for right now. When he had first hopped into the car, he thought he was running away from that. Now, halfway into Harvard’s campus, hands shoved in the pockets of a jacket that had his shoulders hunched, he was starting to think the opposite. Why in the hell would seeing a guy from the war make him not think about the war? What kind of fucking logic was that?

He kept walking anyway. He was following some directions from random folks who he’d shown Web’s address—scrawled thoughtlessly on one of the many letters Joe hadn’t returned. He was living in a campus apartment now, it seemed. Probably couldn’t handle living in the same room with a bunch of 4F college boys. But, even if he needed the space, Joe also wondered how he slept alone. So many years in close quarters with a bunch of other guys, foxholes and small bunks; Joe remembered when he first came home, how silent it was. Every sound on the street, every flutter of paper, and every creak of the old brownstone he had grown up in—it all made him freeze rigid before he could remind himself that he was in San Francisco and not Belgium. He shut down the part of his mind that began to wander to Web lying alone in bed at night, and instead climbed the stairs to the set of attached rooms and apartments. He checked the piece of paper again—3C—then looked up and knocked on the door.

He turned away, pretending that his stomach didn’t clench as he heard footsteps coming down the hall on the opposite side of the wall. Then, the door opened and his head whipped way faster than he’d ever admit. But, instead of Web and his stupid bright eyes and chapped lips, there was some other asshole. He looked young, really young, though Joe guessed he had to only be a few years less than himself. Still, his eyes crinkled into a polite smile with shocking naivety.

“Hi,” he said, “Can I help you?”

“Er,” Joe looked around. “I’m looking for Webster?”

“Kenyon?”

“What?” Joe asked dumbly, and then said, “Oh, uh, yeah.”

 _Kenyon_. Jeez, that was weird. He had seen him sign letters to his parents like that, but he’d also never heard him introduce himself as such. He remembered Nixon shouting;

_Webster! Hey, David? That work?_

_David’s fine, sir._

_I meant the gun, Webster._

_Oh, right. Yeah, it’s unjammed, I’ll bring it to Skinny._

Gunfire.

Joe blinked. “What?”

“I said he’s working in the library, I think. You want to come in?”

“Oh, sure.” The old boards moved under his feet as he stepped into the apartment. To the right there was a hall with off-center doors he assumed were bedrooms, and to the left it opened into a rounded space with a couch and table. In the corner he could see the hint of a kitchen overflowing with dishes.

He gestured to Joe’s bag. “You staying here?”

“Yup.”

“Ken’s room is the last door, you can drop stuff in there if you want.” As he said it he walked into the living area, leaving Joe in the hallway. Feeling strangely awkward, he walked to the last room. He pushed the door open softly and let his bag fall off his shoulder in the corner. Walking to the middle of the room he reached up to pull the string attached to a lone lightbulb. In Joe’s mind, he had always imagined Web living in some fancy place—oak trimmed walls and Tiffany lamps. Yet, the apartment was almost painfully normal—like his Ma’s house. They were college kids after all, and besides, maybe some were here on scholarship. Harvard couldn’t only be filled with highhats like Web. _Highhats like Web_.

The room was extremely neat, with a small desk that had organized stacks of books on it, and a bed with military corners. The walls were a peeling, reddish brown color and the only thing on them was a lonesome set of dog tags, hanging on a nail above the bed. _Like a cross_ , Joe thought. Then suddenly feeling much too intimate for comfort, he switched off the light and walked down the hall to the living space. The kid was there, sitting on the couch and covered in papers and books. He looked up and grinned.

“I’m Danny, by the way.” He said, “Did you find the room okay?”

“Yeah,” He replied. “Joe.”

“Your name’s Joe?”

“Yep.” Then, wandering over to look at some of the photos hung on the wall, he added, “People usually just call me Liebgott.”

“That your last name?”

“Nothing gets past you Harvard types.” He said, humorlessly. Still, the kid laughed.

“You from Boston College or…?”

But Joe wasn’t listening. Instead he was staring at a photo of two men— _boys_ —sitting on a bench laughing. It was them—his own arm was thrown over Web’s shoulders, pulling him down in what was probably a beginning attempt at wrestling. He remembered Winters had gotten some photos from someone who had been back with them in Toccoa; he hadn’t realized Web had been given one. Then again, Winters probably knew Joe wouldn’t want it; that thought unsettled his stomach for a reason he couldn’t name.

“I’m from San Francisco.” Joe finally answered.

“Oh, damn you’re far from home then, huh?”

“Been farther.” He said.

“Is that you?”

Joe turned to him and saw he was looking at the same picture. “Yeah.”

“So you were in Europe with Ken? Paratrooper, yeah? East Company?”

“Easy.” He said.

He shrugged “He doesn’t talk about it much.” Then he smiled again. “Nice you came to see him, though.”

“How old are you?” Joe thought out loud.

“Twenty-One.” His smile became a grimace. “Color blind. 4F.”

Before he could respond, the front door opened and in bounded some huge guy with a crew cut and set of books under his arm.

“Hey Dan—“ he stopped as he saw Joe. “Hey, what’s buzzin’?”

“War pal of Kenyon’s, from San Francisco.”

The man stepped forward, reached out his hand. Joe looked at it for a second before lifting his hand to shake. “Thank you for your service.” He said.

Joe stared at him.

Then, the door opened again. By this point Joe expected it to be another roommate, but instead it was Webster. Fucking _Webster_ with a bag slung over his shoulder and a jacket fitting quite nicely on his frame. He was looking at Joe, but it took him at least a few seconds to realize what he was seeing. It was in that precise moment that Joseph Liebgott came upon the revelation that he had _no idea what the fuck he was doing_.

Without saying anything, Web walked slowly down the hall into the living space.

“Liebgott?”

With a sudden force of motion, Joe felt his big ass mouth open, “What, did you go fucking blind in the last year?”

Web blinked once, then twice, then burst out laughing. Then Joe was laughing too, and Web crossed the room to him and pulled him into his arms. The rising tide of anxiety in his chest suddenly dissipated, but instead of reveling in the moment, he shoved him back.

“Did you come here from San Francisco?” Web asked.

“No, I stopped in the Hamptons first.”

“Alright, alright—“

“They allow hooch here for you kids?”

Web laughed again, shaking his head. “Yeah, come on. There’s a juice joint not too far from here. Let me put my shit down.”

He watched Web walk away back down the hall to his room, then looked back at the college kids staring at him.

“He didn’t know you were coming?” Danny asked.

Web shouted down the hall to them, “Joe doesn’t do pleasantries!”

He felt his eyes give a hard roll, and left the guys in the room to walk to Web. He leaned in the door way, watching the other man unload more books onto his desk and shuck off his jacket.

Web grinned at him. “You’re lucky, it was damn near freezing here last week.”

“Do you have to read all those?” Joe nodded to the books, and Web followed his gaze.

“Oh—no. You just pull from them what’s useful. Chapter here, chapter there.”

“Sounds boring.”

“It is.”

Joe looked up to find Web staring him deeply in the eyes, a sudden flat honesty in his voice. He looked away.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Okay.”

 --------

“So, fucking literature, huh?” He shouted over the swing band, which blared into the room with a vibrant beat, keeping couples up and dancing for song after song. They were pretty much the only two in the whole bar who hadn’t ventured out to grab a girl. He tried not to think about it.

“Yeah.” Web nodded, a bit sluggish from the gin. “So, Dick fucking Tracy, huh?”

Joe rolled his eyes, “Christ, I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I remember a lot of things,” Web replied a bit more quietly, staring into his drink. Joe felt something well up inside him—it wasn’t irritation, it was… well, he didn’t know what it was.

“So another war hero?”

They both turned to see a Danny, the other roommate, and a couple unfamiliar faces with them. There were a couple of girls too—pretty ones, though no doubt students as well.

“Can we join?” the bigger guy asked, and Joe kicked out a chair for them.

“We didn’t get a chance to introduce,” he said while sitting. “I’m Eric. You know Danny, then that’s Jack and Harry—“ he pointed to the two other guys,”—Jack is our other housemate, and those are their girls from Radcliffe, Vera and Allie.”

Allie reach across the table with a limp wristed hand. He took it. “Good to meet you.”

“Uh, likewise.”

“You served?” Vera asked, eyes wide.

“Yeah.”

“He served with Kenyon,” Eric said. “Jumping out of planes into France, yeah?”

“Jumped into a lot of places.” Joe replied.

“Not to sound silly…” Allie said, “But why jump out of a plane? I mean isn’t that a huge risk, why not just capture places with the rest of the army?”

“You work outward.” Web said, saving Joe the trouble. “You get dropped in the middle of the enemy’s territory, then work through them until you meet your own again.”

“Wow,” Vera said. “That’s so brave.”

Joe noticed one of the guys, Jack, grimace. Joe shook his head. “No, it’s fucking stupid.” The girls retracted a little at his curse, but he just downed his drink then grinned. “But they paid us more, so what the hell.”

“You shouldn’t downplay it,” Eric said, “She’s right.”

Joe raised an eyebrow at him. “Not ‘downplaying’, I was fucking there, wasn’t I?”

He felt Web’s hand, warm and large, grip his knee under the table. He knew he should be irritated at the rebuke, but instead he just felt very warm very fast.

“It’s alright, he’s bad at saying thank you.”

Now _that_ fucking irritated him, mostly because it was really true and _fuck you anyway_. But before he could open his mouth that hand squeezed his knee and moved away, and one of the guys started talking about some final paper or some shit. Joe’s eyes wandered around the room, then he stood. Web looked up at him.

“Gotta piss!” He shouted over the music.

 --------

The bathroom was dingy, to say the least, and after he peed he found himself hunched over the sink, looking up at himself darkly in the mirror. _Why the fuck are you here?_ He didn’t know if he was asking himself, Web, or wishing Web would ask him. The drinks were wearing away, and he could feel himself having emotions in a very sharp and uncomfortable way. In Frisco there had been routine; get up, drink coffee, drive some assholes some places, eat dinner with his Ma, then collapse on his bed and stare at the wall until sleep caught him off guard. Here, things were different. Everything had a sharp edge, a deeper meaning. Joe didn’t want to _think_ , like, what the fuck? Getting plastered definitely crossed his mind, but he didn’t want to be vulnerable—not with Webster around, who could see all his fleshy openings and seemed to enjoy poking at them. Nah, he’d stay sober and force Web to sleep on his own couch; smoke all of his cigarettes and make him feel bad for dragging him from fucking Frisco to this dump. _He didn’t ask you to come_. Joe told his brain to shut the fuck up, then opened the door only to walk right into Web.

“Hey,” Webster said. “Wanted to ask if you wanted to go?”

“You got a smoke?”

He fumbled in his pocket, then took out a cigarette for him. Joe stared at him, and Web sighed and placed it between the other man’s lips. He dug into another pocket to grab his lighter, then place the flame to the tip. Joe sucked in, the smoke immediately easing his brain and muscles.

“Yeah, let’s get the fuck out of here. Your friends suck.”

 --------

They walked back to the apartment in silence. Whether it was comfortable or not, Joe couldn’t tell. Every once in a while he would feel Web’s shoulder brush up against his, and he would have the sudden volatile need to punch him in the face, but usually it would pass. By the time they arrived, Joe was nearly boiling over. He brushed past Web to walk into his room, then dropped onto the bed and began to roughly undo his boots.

“Uh…” Web edged into the room. “Everything okay?”

Joe looked at him like he was the stupidest fucking person in the world. “Fucking no. It’s not. Okay?” He returned to his boots, pulling one off and tossing it down.

“Okay,” Web said, voice edging on anger. A deep satisfaction filled Joe. “Well do I get to know what the fucking problem is, or are you just continue to act like an ass?”

Joe’s other boot flew across the room, just missing his head as he ducked.

“What the fuck?” Web exclaimed. Despite the fact that the apartment was empty, he slammed the door shut behind himself. _A private argument_. “It’s not their fault, you know? They were fucking kids—“

“I was a fucking kid!”

“Some of them had medical shit—I don’t know, some of them _were_ too young.”

“Like Jackson? Huh?” He stood up, angry as hell. “Remember him? Blew his own fucking face off with a grenade.”

“Christ, Lieb.” He shook his head. “That what you want? Everyone to be as fucking miserable as us?”

“Oh fuck off,” he said. “Sorry if conversations about philosophy over cocktails isn’t a way I can spend an evening. Sorry If I’m just a little irked hearing how _brave_ and _strong_ it must be to watch two of your fucking friends get their legs blown off.” Web went to reply, but before he could Joe added nastily, “That was Bastogne, by the way. You missed it.”

“Fuck you.”

Joe turned to look at him with a cruel and awful satisfaction. “Oh? Too far, you fucking coward?”

“I was in the _hospital_ —“

“So was Joe fucking Toye before he went AWOL to come back and lose his goddamn leg.”

“ _What do you want!?_ ” Web cried out, sounding more desperate than angry. “You wish I was crippled? Huh? You wish I was dead? So what? You could lament and have a _reason_ to be so _fucking bitter all of the time_ —“

Joe cut him off by slamming him against his desk and covering his mouth with his own. He could feel Web’s surprise, could feel his body tense against the assault; but then he was melting into him, and the hands that held the desk he was pressed against loosened and came to touch the hand that gripped his face. The kiss turned from brutal to wet and soft and open mouthed, and just as he could feel Web ready to let himself go, he pulled away.

“God, do you ever shut the fuck up?” Joe dug, stealing his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. Web stared at him with something Joe couldn’t figure out—didn’t want to figure out—and instead he lit his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Before he could take another hit, it was plucked from his lips. Web took the cigarette and moved to sit on the bed. He rubbed the back of his neck and frowned.

“Why did you come here, Joe?” _There it was._

He stared numbly.

“Because I hate you.” He finally said. “Because I hate you so _fucking much_ and San Francisco was too bright and too empty and I needed to see you.”

Web nodded. He crushed the cigarette on the bed post and let it drop to the floor, and when he turned to look back, Joe was standing over him.

“Move back.”

Webster scooted back until he felt his back press against the wall. Joe placed his hands on the other man’s shoulders, and climbed right onto his lap. He took a moment to feel him—running his hands through Web’s hair, then over his eyes and cheeks and lips, down his neck where he gripped a little too hard for a little too long, and finally down over his chest.

“ _Lieb_.”

“Oh? Formal now?”

Web shook his head. “ _Liebling_.” He said.

“Fucking Christ, Webster” Joe replied, kissing him again. This time he pressed himself down, feeling Web hard underneath him. They both groaned at the feeling; at the knowledge that Joe was hard too and sitting in his lap like he belonged there, and Web was only too willing to be adjusted and used.

“Joe,” he whispered.

He was making small circular movements with his hips; too much and yet not enough. “Uh huh.” he breathed.

“You hate me?”

Joe moaned and pressed their mouths back together, licking inside and biting down hard on his bottom lip. Web whimpered. “Yeah I hate you.” He said.

“Show me,” Web spoke against his mouth, hot air breathing onto him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he said, then nodded. He rolled his hips down so he was practically rutting against him, and Webster’s hands found their way to those hips, pushing them down even harder and faster. Web’s head fell back against the wall as he moaned loudly.

“Wait,” Joe said, shaking his head he grabbed the hands that were guiding his hips. “ _Wait_ , Web I… fuck.”

“What?” Web let go, worry rising to his throat.

“ _Iwantyouinsideme._ ” He whispered hot and fast into his ear, blushing at his own words—at the fact that they were true and he hated himself for it. But then Webster whimpered instead of spoke, and any and all of Joe’s shame went right out the fucking window. He moved and pushed Web so he was lying on the bed, shoving off his own jacket and then tearing at the buttons on both of their shirts.

“I—“ Web grabbed his hands, stopping them. “I uh, I don’t know how to do this…”

Joe smirked. “Ah, finally. Something you don’t know.” Web frowned, but Joe pushed his hands aside and straddled him once more. To Web’s complete dismay, he _winked_. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll show you.”

It was less awkward than Web might have imagined, mostly because Joe would roughly move him and instruct him and for some goddamn reason that just turned him on _more_. It wasn’t the most straight forward thing, though, despite what Joe said. And by the time they were finally ready to start he thought maybe he would have been able to please Joe better if they had just done it his way.

Then Joe sank slowly onto him and any coherent thought he had had before flew from his mind.

“ _Oh_ ,” he gasped, hands griping the sheets as hips met his own.

“Yeah,” Joe smirked, but his eyebrows were knit together in a way that signaled concern.

“Is,” Web panted, “Is this okay? Are you—“

“Shut _up_ ,” He said, punctuating it by moving up again slowly, then back down. He shuddered, falling forward so his hands were on Web’s shoulders. “Oh, _fuck_ , Web.”

Part of Web wanted to close his eyes and let himself be overwhelmed by the sensation, but Joe looked _so pretty_ and his lips were _so red_ from bites and kisses and Web was struck by the fact that _he did that_. He put that look on Joe’s face; that blissed out, downright debauched look. He remembered how Joe had keened when he had taken his hips when they first were on the bed, and so with a sudden surge of confidence he grabbed his hips again and pushed up into them quick and hard. Joe cried out, the grip on his shoulders become a vice as nails dug into skin. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was extremely grateful his peers were still out, because Joe was so _loud_ and Web was not in any kind of position or mood to shut him up. He wondered if he was always like this, hips rolling up into him and moaning like one of those cheap whores in France. Did he sound like this when he was alone? _What about with someone else?_ Web’s brain didn’t like that thought, though it was very evident Joe had done this before. Still, it was hard to imagine Joe so open with anyone—he could barely believe he was like this with him. Just moments ago he had been snapping at him; _no, touch me here, like this you ass, pay attention, look at me, stop that_.

 _Now look at you,_ Web thought.

He felt himself laugh, and before Joe could snap at him again he began to fuck up into him as hard as Joe was fucking down, and Joe’s cries turned to shouts.

“Web,” He moaned, “Webster, you— _oh fuck_.”

“Yes?” he heard himself pant out. Joe’s hand moved into his hair and pulled hard.

“Web—I—oh, David, _David,_ ah, _ah_.” And then his eyes squeezed shut and his pretty mouth fell open and David was gone with him, shuddering into him with the force of an orgasm he had never felt before in his life.

Joe moved off, but collapsed on top of him, panting and exhausted. David turned his head to breath in the sweat collecting at the nape of his neck. He moved his hands from Joe’s hips up to his sides, and finally his back. He let his fingers trail down the line between his shoulders and then back up again. Softly, slowly, both of their breathing calmed and David was beginning to think he’d be happy to fall asleep just like this when Joe sat up suddenly, moving to stand. Bleary eyed and still a bit weak, David pushed up onto his elbows and followed his movements around the room. Joe picked up David’s shirt from the floor, and before he could say anything to stop him, Joe wiped the mess off of himself and tossed it to him.

“Er, thanks.” He said, using the already ruined fabric. Joe pulled on his pants and David watched him a bit stupidly as he walked down the hall, _leaving the door open_ , to go find the bathroom. For a moment he wanted to laugh, but then he heard the tell-tale sounds of people stumbling up the stairs and he nearly sprinted across the room to slam the door shut. He pressed his ear to the door and listened to the guys come in. Just Eric and Danny again; Jack must have decided to go home with Allie. He felt odd for a moment, thinking that he and Jack were technically having the same kind of night, though his situation felt _very different_.

Then the door banged into his face.

“ _Ow!_ ”

“The fuck are you doing?” Joe asked, stepping into the room. He was shirtless and beltless which meant his pants hung loose on his skinny frame. Despite their evening thus far, David felt himself blush—then panic.

“Did you just walk down the hallway?”

“No.” Joe said flatly. “I teleported here.”

“Did, did they see you?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said, rummaging around to trade pants for underwear. “Who cares?”

“ _What?_ ”

Having changed, Joe plopped onto the bed with exaggerated exasperation and raised an eyebrow at him. “David.”

“Yes?”

“You’re naked.” He said. Then, like was usual when Joe was around, he felt suddenly very silly, and blushed even harder than he had been before. “Now, turn off the fucking light and come here.”

For safe keeping, he locked the door, then went to pull the light string. The room disappeared into darkness, the only light seeping through the cracks on the broken parts of his blinds. He slipped into bed next to Joe, who was wonderfully soft and warm and whose hair smelled very nice, and he nuzzled into his shoulder.

“Oh, God,” Joe propped himself up to look at him. “You’re not gonna want to fucking cuddle now are you?”

David opened his mouth to shoot a smart reply, but then felt too tired, and just looked at him. Joe rolled his eyes in a classic fashion, but let out his arm nonetheless and pulled David into his chest, pressing his nose into his hair. Their legs moved together to adjust, and they finally fell back into a comfortable position, Joe’s chin hooked over his shoulder.

He fell asleep to the movement of Joe’s chest taking in and letting out air, a deep hypnotic motion which lulled him into his first dreamless sleep since before the war. In a year they’d be in San Francisco. In ten years they’d be in Santa Monica. And in fifteen years he'd be lost at sea. 


End file.
